Momentarily Distracted
by Insomiak
Summary: '… And, being of moderate intelligence, our murderer set out to kill me.  Quite artlessly, I must say.  Not like you.  You get dead siblings and decorated corpses, I get shot at like a dog.' Sherlock/John. Slash.
1. Chapter One

AN: I'm writing this for a friend. It does not do her, Sir ACD, Sherlock Holmes, or anything at all, any justice whatsoever. If there are mistakes, kindly point them out, and if SH's detective work is flawed, try your best to ignore it, because I don't have time to rewrite anything. It is intentionally rushed. Why? Decide for yourself.

* * *

><p>Momentarily Distracted<p>

Chapter One.

* * *

><p>"Look. You make the choice to help people – "<p>

"To solve cases – "

"Okay, you make the choice to _solve cases_. Correct?"

"Correct."

"And you make this choice because it's better than the alternatives…Being a scientist or something, or 'Being Bored.' Correct?"

Sherlock nodded.

"It's desirable, solving cases instead of these other things. Yes?"

"Yes."

"So you desire one option – solving crimes – over all of the other options."

Sherlock looked at her. _So what?_

"So," Harry said, triumphant on all accounts, "There is no 'reason' behind your decision. You don't solve crimes instead of working at a university because it pays better; I have seen my brother's notes from the bank, detective, and I know it doesn't. No, you choose to solve crimes because you like it. More than you like doing anything else. Don't you see?" She spun around, eyes flashing in a flurry at her brother. John was trying to read the newspaper and enjoy his morning tea. She flipped back to Sherlock. "There is _only_ emotion behind it. You _like_ solving crimes. If you don't get any pleasure from it, then why – reasonably and logically – do you do it?"

Harry had been taking a few philosophy courses at university and, upon her morning arrival to 221b, had stolen the liberty of trying to prove that Sherlock Holmes was not, in fact, a sociopath. Hence John was hiding himself behind his tea cup.

Sherlock pressed his hands together and stared out the window. "There is more logic behind capturing criminals than attempting to teach fools in a university."

Harry took the insult and tossed it back from a slingshot. "But you do care – that proves it. You think that stopping criminals is more advantageous than trying to educate people who are well past their childhood. So you choose the option that is more advantageous, because you _care_ about doing what is more advantageous to society, because you view that as the _logical_ thing."

Harry had informed them earlier that, according to someone's concepts of moral philosophy (John couldn't remember who) reason cannot exist without emotion. If we don't care emotionally about the outcome, then why would anyone decide anything? He supposed it made sense. John wasn't thrilled that she was trying to convince Sherlock that he wasn't as close to mentally deranged as he thought himself to be, though. While he constantly found himself in awe of the detective's intelligence, his sister seemed to not care about it at all.

"Caring about doing the logical thing and caring about people are entirely different."

"It's still caring."

"John you're sister wants you to call her a cab home."

"I don't!"

"You really do." As he said it, Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket. It buzzed in his fingers one second later. "Told you – " He looked at John. " – nine AM exactly. We're wanted at the Yard. So sorry Miss Watson, we'll have to continue this horrid conversation some other day. Maybe over a bottle of wine?" He smirked.

John looked up over his newspaper to check – and yes, that smirk was heartless.

* * *

><p>Lestrade was kneeling over a corps when the detective and the doctor arrived. His eyes were sunken, John noticed right away (which meant Sherlock had noticed, which was significant not in the fact itself, but in the comfort of knowing the man would never miss <em>anything<em>). The D.I had probably been up all night.

It was only the three of them crowded around the body. A young boy with fiery red hair and puffy cheeks. Jeremy Gregs. He was found dead a few hours ago by his mother, lying face up in their kitchen. She was dazed out in the living room, in shock and murmuring to the paramedics. The quiet white kitchen, with the stock-still young body, and her meaningless muttering – it was enough to ring a shiver through John. So, naturally, Sherlock Holmes was grinning like a minx.

Practically skipping, he began prodding the victim. Knowing it to be useless, John started noting things, listing: no blood, no trauma, nothing broken in the room – was the front door forced open? – home on a Monday, why wasn't he in school? He turned to ask Lestrade.

"What was he doing home on a Monday afternoon?"

Sherlock answered before the D.I opened his mouth. "He was being bullied – physically. That or his mother beat him. But seeing as she's a stay-home and he chose to avoid school by going home, we come to the striking conclusion that it wasn't her."

"Is it a suicide then?" John asked.

"Not unless he just _willed_ himself to die," Sherlock huffed, "Honestly…"

"The father couldn't have beat him?" Apparently the answer was so obviously '_No_' that Sherlock couldn't be bothered to reply. John looked around the room – no father in any of the pictures along the walls. Three people: mother, son, and daughter. But that didn't mean there wasn't a father. They could have divorced, he could live on the other side of town and the mother could hate him, and wouldn't put any pictures of him up. So how…

"The father, where is he?" Sherlock asked.

"Work," Lestrade answered.

"Have you told him yet?"

"We – "

John bristled. "I thought there _wasn't_ a father."

Sherlock stood up, coat tails dragging across the dead body's cheeks. "No pictures of him on the walls – suggests divorce, an ugly one."

"He could have died _years_ ago, when the son was born."

"This boy has a sister, John, who is around twenty – letter from her university on the counter – meaning that father would have been here for at least the first ten years of his daughter's life, as the younger brother is ten years old."

"Different fathers?"

"No picture of _any_ fathers."

"Boyfriend? The mother could have made a bad choice."

"A man walks out on her after at least ten years of marriage, and you think she ran into the arms of a stranger? Look around, this house is comfortable, friendly, not overly decorated or cleaned raw. She is not trying to cover up some sordid sexual past with a perfect home. Furthermore, this is the same house she shared with her ex-husband – "

"How can you possibly – "

Sherlock cut him off, "Sign out front, 'Hitchcock Established 1950.' The mother's maiden name is Hitchcock, she's changed it back since the divorce, bills on the fridge, this house has probably been in her family for years – why else would she keep it? – bad part of town to raise children."

"She could have bought it back after he left."

"A single mother with two children, buying an antique home like this? Not a very wise finical choice. Now, if I may _continue_." He titled his chin to the air and continued at a rapid pace, "The boy came here to avoid school, why, clearly, here is home; he has bruises on his ribs, old and new ones, so prolonged and routine abuse; he was killed around noon and it is a school day, so he was not avoiding his father's house, he was avoiding school; therefore, he experienced regular physical harm as school; therefore was regularly bullied at school. Do you require anymore _clarification_, doctor?"

Sherlock's eyes were narrowed at John.

"Right." John said, and turned to Lestrade. "So why'd you call us?"

"This is one of two dead bodies in the house. The other – the sister – " he eyed them both " – is downstairs with a sword through her chest."

John felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up; interest blasted a grin across Sherlock's lips.

＊

The blood was drying around the corpse. Flat on her back with a sword through her chest, staring open-eyed at the ceiling, the sister to the brother in the kitchen: Jennifer Gregs. Light came from a small window over her head, but that was it. The basement was dark, grey, and freezing. That's the only thing different from the scene playing through John's head. The scene John could recall had the sun and heat of the East. It was similar. But how could it follow him to London?

He was usually wrong about these things. Anyway, he kept his mouth shut.

Anderson was with them, and he spoke up as Sherlock studied the body, "It looks like someone was trying to save her. The cloth covering the wound and the pillow under her head."

Sherlock laughed. "She's lying here with a sword through her chest and you think someone was trying to _save_ her?"

"The cloth – "

"Someone was trying to tease her, give her false hope. Our murderer has personal feelings attached to this, then."

Sherlock walked over to John, ignoring Anderson now. John stood very still, not entirely noticing that his friend was getting closer – not until Sherlock shoved a hand down the back pocket of his trousers and started digging around.

"Sherlock!" John jumped and batted him away, "What the hell!"

"Just getting the gloves." He didn't even blink; stuck his hand back down John's pocket and rummaged.

"You could ask!"

"Why?"

Their faces were close, Sherlock looking at him, inquiringly, not sure what the problem was. And John was forced to stay still, pressed between Sherlock's hand and Sherlock's chest.

"Get a _room_." Anderson snipped.

Sherlock pulled the gloves out and walked back to the body. He began lifting bits of the cloth around the buried sword, studying it intensely. Then he checked her pockets. Wallet: ID, one credit card, school ID, gift cards, and no change. He stole her cellphone. Lestrade complained and was ignored. He stood up, apparently done.

"The cloth is from your clinic, John," Sherlock said, passingly, and then turned to Lestrade, "This is going to happen again."

He nodded. "I thought so."

Sherlock left and John followed.

* * *

><p>"My clinic?" John asked when Sherlock gave the directions to the cabby. "You do know that we aren't the only ones who use that sort of cloth."<p>

"The sword was Middle Eastern."

"So? You think the murderer was from the East?"

He sat back in the seat. "No, obviously not."

"Obviously," John rolled his eyes and asked no more.

When they arrived at the clinic, Sherlock walked up to the front desk and, seeming to forget that he'd ever put her life in danger, shoved Jennifer Gregs's phone into Sarah's face.

"Do you recognize her?" Sherlock asked.

"Hello John," Sarah said, "On a case, are you?"

"Yes. Sorry," he added because he always felt like apologizing for Sherlock's social skills, "Been busy?"

"Well – "

"Oh for God's sake!" The detective huffed. "Let's pretend we _did_ the small-talk thing already. Answer my question. Have you ever seen this girl?"

Sarah eyed John, and then shook her head at Sherlock. "No. Never. I see everyone who comes in here, so – "

"Yes I know that."

John turned on him. "How – no, _why_ do you know that?"

"Useful information."

"How is knowing my co-workers' schedules useful?"

"It just was John, try to keep up." Sherlock looked back at Sarah. "Mind if we borrow his office for a moment?"

She looked between them. Three times. Smiled.

"Sure, go ahead."

＊

John's office was as military and straight-and-narrow as he was. It reflected those traits of his personality far better than the flat. The walls were all one colour, white with medical posters. One was of the spinal chord: cervical, thoracic, and lumbar vertebrae, and others of the digestive tract, depression awareness, and other possible mental illnesses. It was all practical. His office represented the reasonable side of him; sensible, careful, and in control. The flat was entirely different. It flourished and grew like is was organic. It surprised him every morning with a new body part in a new place. It smelt like coffee and acidic residue. It had Sherlock and most of all, it represented (and often tested) John's patience, which was wider and more overbearing than any other part of his personality.

"Why're we in here?" He asked as Sherlock closed the door.

"Need to think."

"Anything I can do?"

The detective rubbed his temples.

It lasted for about twenty minutes. Watching Sherlock think, no; the fact that he could _watch_ Sherlock _think_ was amazing. He swatted at thoughts in the air, shook his head at the wrong ideas, and looked John up and down every few minutes, as if he didn't already know exactly what John looked like. He wasn't flattering himself – Sherlock Holmes would know exactly how everyone he knew looked like, whether he wanted to or not. John suspected that got annoying. Being forced to memorize details and having to delete them from his Mind Palace. Oh that… Mind Palace. Did he have his own room? Or was he just some arbitrary piece of furniture? A street-sign, probably. John H. Watson Lane. Ha.

"There's something you're not telling me," Sherlock said suddenly.

Two things, actually.

"What?"

"I've gone over the crime scene and everything I have in here about you and I've come to the conclusion that there is definitely something you're keeping from me, probably because you find it painful to think of; but John you have to tell me, I'll only need to hear it once," still talking, Sherlock started moving towards him. John found his legs stiff, shoulders square, alert. But standing still. "I know you dislike talking about your time in the army," Sherlock sauntered (_sauntered_?) over, "but," and fixed two eyes on his face, searching, "I think someone is coming after you so you have to tell me what it is."

John knew why Sherlock was so close. He'd done this before; Optimize his memory, focus him, make sure John wouldn't be distracted because most of his vision was taken up with Sherlock's face. Right. Not that it mattered, John still felt the need to press himself against the cabinet behind him and as far away from Sherlock as possible.

"I," he managed, licking his lips. "I had hundreds of patients. Lots of people came to my table. Canadian, American, Afghan… it gets hectic and nationality doesn't matter when someone's clinging to life and you're their only hope." Sherlock backed away. He swallowed. "There was one girl. She wasn't with us, she was Canadian. She got a lead pipe through her chest. It flung into the air, something exploded, I don't know, it wasn't important how. I had her on my table with her head next to a window, pillow holding it up and bloodied bandages at my feet from trying to stop her from bleeding out. She smiled and thanked me and then she died."

Sherlock's eyes winded with realization.

"But there's no way," John said, "It has to be a coincidence. She was from a different country, Sherlock, she had no idea who I was. And," he paused for emphasis, "she's dead."

His vision narrowed and he looked almost betrayed. "John, sometimes you are an _idiot_. Worse than Lestrade, worse than Anderson!"

"I am not worse than Anderson."

"There is no such thing as a coincidence!"

"There really is."

"Don't you see? The sword was a pulwar – traditional Afghan sword. Symbolic." He was grinning ear to ear, and did a dramatic spin near the window, "Our murderer has a poetic soul! He's out for revenge, John Watson, he's a serial killer with a purpose. Oh this is fantastic!"

"A serial killer is out to murder me," John stopped, contemplating. Processed the information. Continued: "and you think that's fantastic?"

Sherlock stopped spinning to regard the doctor. "He won't get away with it, of course."

"You sure?"

"Don't be stupid. You've got me for a bodyguard – and _I _am a _genius_."

* * *

><p>John went to bed early that night. They'd just started a new case, and that meant they'd be up for three days straight eventually, so he needed all the extra sleep he could get. Sherlock was like a heart beat. He never needed to rest. One day he'd die, but until then, he'd just keep working.<p>

Thinking about Sherlock while he was alone in his bed was a bad idea. John had figured that out quickly after they'd met. It made for a lot of tossing and turning and no actual sleep. That grin would explode into his mind, and all of his annoying habits and hobbies would run along John's memory. It was distracting. And then Sherlock would start playing the violin downstairs, which was disgracing and noisy.

"John!"

That, and he was _weird_.

"John!" He shouted again, from downstairs. "John!"

"WHAT!" He yelled back, louder than he needed to. There was no response for a few minutes. Everything went quiet. Calm. Then footpads sounded on the stairs and a hysterical Sherlock Holmes flung his bedroom door open.

His face was serious. "I thought you'd left! Oh never mind it – where's your phone?"

Before John could answer, Sherlock's hands were at his sheets. The detective tore them away, exposing John's body to the colder air.

"You keep it on you when you sleep. Where?" Sherlock began feeling around. It was – it was very much not alright. His hands grabbed at John's shirt, pulling at the fabric. His fingers were long, attentive, and on John's ribs. His phone wasn't there, his phone was in his trousers, and Sherlock seemed to deduce this, and John almost let him go with the idea, his neck was hot for the second time today, Sherlock was in his bed, and it was very much _not_ alright.

"_Here_." John snapped, and plopped the phone down in Sherlock's hands. "What do you need it for?" He was a bit breathless and hoped to Anything Out There that Sherlock would somehow fail to notice.

"Need to text Sarah."

"And pretend to be me?"

"Yes, excellent deduction."

John felt a bit sick, so he kicked Sherlock off his bed and told him to try and land him another date with her, then, if he insisted on impersonating him.


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

* * *

><p>Like every morning of his life after uni (not including most of his time in the military), John woke up and went straight for the kettle. And like every morning after meeting Sherlock Holmes, John poured the old water out of the kettle, scrubbed it free of possible toxins or melted flesh, and <em>then<em> made tea with it. He wasn't a creature of habit. The act was one of self preserverience. Sherlock had drugged him before. Disinfecting the tea kettle wasn't paranoid, it was smart.

Waiting for the water to boil, John reached into his trouser's pocket to get his phone. Of course like most mornings, it wasn't there.

"Sherlock," he said into the living room, "Where's my phone?"

There was no answer, which meant the detective was either still in bed (unlikely), or ignoring him (definitely). So, being the Infinite Ocean of Patience he was, John took a breath and let the annoyance slip off his shudders. Sherlock always got worse during a case. More… absent of emotion. Unaware of boundaries. And honestly manic at some points. It was to be expected.

He rolled up his sleeves and filled the sink with hot water. Domesticity always calmed him down (as well as vigilante crime fighting), which he guessed was good for both of them. And there were always dishes to do. Usually, though, there was blood in the sink; but because Sherlock had been doing mental work all night and not experiments, John was alleviated from that particular experience this morning.

"Sherlock." He tried again, soap working up his arms. No answer. That made his brain boil at a low heat. He'd tolerated Sherlock's hyperactive, '_Let-me-use-your-phone-John-and-pretend-to-be-you-to-get-information-from-your-ex-who-hates-us-both-but-you-considerably-less-right-okay_!' He always did what he asked, followed orders because it was innate, anyway, and he wanted to help. But would it kill Sherlock to just reply? One time? To pop his head into the kitchen and say, 'Yes, I'm here, what is it?'

John ignored the living room and focused on the dishes. The water in the kettle was boiling, but he was busy. Maybe if Sherlock-Sodding-Holmes wasn't such a brat he'd come pour John tea.

"Ah, morning."

For a split second the doctor thought that Sherlock really _was_ going to pour him tea. He looked sloppy and warm, wrapped up in a blanket, lines under his eyes from not sleeping. It was a very cozy look.

John felt the tension lapse from his shoulders. He drained the sink, about to make his tea (because of course Sherlock wouldn't, but that was alright, the 'good morning' was nice, it was all alright).

And then Sherlock-Sodding-Holmes dropped a dirty mug into the now-empty sick and walked back into the living room without giving John his phone and when John looked into the living room Sherlock-Sodding-Holmes was on _his_ computer and wearing _his_ slippers and texting someone on _his_ phone and John was going to scream if that arsehole didn't change, if something didn't change. He couldn't put up with it. That was becoming obvious as the days dragged on. John didn't want to tolerate Sherlock's company anymore.

He left the mug in the sink and walked into the living room.

"Sherlock I want my phone."

The detective tossed it at him. "Lestrade called, another murder. Let's go."

Fists clenched, John followed.

* * *

><p>The kitchen of this crime was dark, wooden, and smelled of baking cookies, which clashed with the dead boy on the black floor. It was Francis Welsford, ten years old. He had brown curly hair and skin a different shade of black from the tiles, so he stood out as brighter, almost glowing as he lay dead. John knew his thoughts would be far too Romantic for Sherlock's predilection of writing, so he threw out the idea of titling this case 'The Angel Killer.' But that's how these dead children seemed to him.<p>

Again, no wound, and nothing broken. How had he died? Poison, likely, but wouldn't Sherlock have said? As a doctor, it was driving John crazy. As Sherlock Holmes's blogger, it was riveting, going to make for an interesting post (Jesus Christ there are three, no four dead people, two of them about _ten years old_, and you're thinking about your blog!) Perspective. For both of their sakes, John had to keep perspective.

Sherlock spoke to Lestrade, "There's another one in the basement."

"Yeah. Same as last time."

They followed the D.I downstairs (a spiral staircase that also doubled as a bookshelf, something John thought was a fantastic idea, but then remembered: dead children). This basement was cleaner than the last. Dark wooden walls, red rug over a beautiful floor, and large windows letting the morning sun in. One ray leapt inside and led exactly to the face of the dead woman. She was, just as the last one, laying on her back with her head propped up on a pillow so she could see outside before life left her. There were only two difference John could find.

One: it wasn't a sword plunged through her chest but lead pipe, which was much more relatable.

Two: she was wearing a military uniform.

He was about to be nauseous – how _dare_ someone murder a soldier. Someone willing to risk her life to save people, someone with eyes as hard as his, someone who had a little brother upstairs to protect. How could anyone… John had made it his career to save people like her, and this, seeing her murdered before ever leaving her home, this was backwards, faulty. He felt the twistedness of it all slap him as he watched the pipe stuck into her gut, blood spilt out the sides of her in heaps, piles, piles of red slimy blood, blood of someone like him, someone ready to risk her life for other people and she would never have the chance now because someone got to her before she could get to the world.

"_Calm down_," Sherlock whispered against his ear.

"I'm fine," John said, and took a healthy three steps away from the detective.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Her name is Kayla Welsford. She was attending – "

"Sandfourth."

It was odd for John to be the one filling in blanks, but it was his area, after all.

"Yeah, Sandfourth. Second year. She was home visiting her sick father from what I can tell, probably risked getting kicked out of the academy for taking so much time off. The mother left when she was thirteen, brother was one. Father raised them until he became too unwell to stay at home."

"What age was she when he became hospital-ridden?" Sherlock asked.

"Eighteen."

"And she's how old now?"

"Twenty-two."

"And has lived at the academy since her first year?"

"Yes."

Sherlock's brow was furrowed. "She came home to look after her brother when their father's money ran out, then," he corrected, "Not to visit her father."

Lestrade started, "How – "

"The son is not old enough to stay home alone daily. There must have been a caretaker, then. The daughter is attending a military academy – to become a medical doctor I assume by the text books piled in the kitchen but it hardly matters. This house is older – antique – and well taken care, expensive. There is only one vehicle outside, at least six years old. The father is now not working and living off his savings, or possibly living on sick-leave or workers' compensation, depending on how he became ill. Regardless, he has little money. How does the daughter afford such prestigious schooling if he has no money? Simple, the university is paying her tuition under contract: once she graduates she'll have to work as a military doctor for a certain number of years, wherever they want her. And because the father's money is likely running thin, the nanny had to go. Ergo the daughter is home to take care of her brother, not to visit her father, who she is probably upset with for not telling her about his poor finical state."

Lestrade was as amazed as ever and gaping. Sherlock smirked and turned his nose up.

"Was," John corrected.

Sherlock bent his neck to join the common people again and blinked. "What?"

"They're dead. It's 'was.' She _was_ upset."

"Oh." He jumped back into his mind, which was neither up where his nose had been nor turned down with the common people. "Also, she is, _was_, clearly a highly independent person. She probably wouldn't have let her father pay for her tuition even if he could so it is possible that he may have money, but then why is she here? Not to visit him, that doesn't make sense. She wouldn't leave school for months to visit her sick father, he's been in the hospital since she was eighteen. So she must be here to watch her brother, because the father's money had run out, and there was no one else to do it."

He preened his head as if waiting for praise.

John didn't offer any. His vision was dark.

"Maybe the father's got worse?" Lestrade said, "About to die?"

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "Why would he keep his house, car, and everything else if he were going to die? Paying all that insurance while his funds dwindle away? Why, when he could sell this antique house for a large sum, give that money to his children, and send his son off to some family member to raise? Why allow his son to remain at home with a caretaker? Why freeze his domestic life, plan for the future? Because he thinks, and not just hopes optimistically, but knows for sure that he will be healthy one day."

Lestrade's jaw was slack with annoyance and undeniable admiration. "You got all that from – "

"Yes, her returning home, ten year old son, father keeping the house." He sniffed. "A much more interesting question is what, exactly, he's sick with…"

John watched the synapses fire and explode in Sherlock's head. His own was spinning, trying to escape the rage, the annoyance at how proud Sherlock always was to show off. There was a dead woman, a dead kid, she was hardy an adult herself – and he was playing tricks! How was any of this relevant to catching (torturing, mauling, and then shooting, if John got two seconds alone) the murderer?

"A disease that can last years without becoming fatal yet still keeps him bed-ridden and unable to work… John, you know it. You must!"

"I don't," he said, looking at the dead soldier.

Sherlock made that sound he always made when people couldn't keep up with his brilliance. "Come on John, don't be thick."

He said nothing.

If that deterred Sherlock in anyway, because John did actually know the answer this time, and Sherlock would know John knew, he didn't show it in the least.

"Lyme Disease, Lestrade, _Lyme Disease_!"

With a rush his hands were at John's back pockets, pulling the gloves out and diving for the dead body.

Lestrade sighed and shrugged, "Alright. So. What does all that tell us, exactly?"

The consulting detective stopped rummaging through the victim's uniform to gape at the D.I. "_Honestly_?"

He turned back to the victim and went through her pockets. Stole her cellphone. Pulled out he wallet, riffled through it. John saw: student ID, money, and pictures. Then he ran his fingers up the lead pipe, sniffed the top of it, and, craning his neck oddly, looked at John. He made some kind of mental note; John knew the expression well, but never what it meant. And then he was examining the cloth around her open gut. It was the cloth from his clinic again, the kind found in first-aid kits and lining the drawers in bio bags, just incase someone came in bleeding.

"Have the pipe sent to your lab. We'll meet it there," Sherlock said, standing. "I think I know where it came from, but better to be sure."

As he walked by John to go back upstairs, the doctor felt colder. He knew that Sherlock did care, under all of this machinery, and it was fine that he didn't show it. But there _was_ something wrong. Something off. He normally looked at John before he left, or said 'Come on,' or waited until John left, waited for him before calling a cab, usually, unless he needed to be alone, and then he'd text John, but just now he hadn't done any of that. And he'd called John thick, which he'd never done because John wasn't. How could he be with a flatmate like Sherlock Holmes?

* * *

><p>The lab was white and spacey as ever. Lestrade and Molly had hung around for a minute, asking questions that Sherlock didn't answer because he was glued to his microscope and muttering insensitivities into the air. John merely shrugged at them when they looked his way.<p>

When they had gone, Sherlock spoke.

"John, here."

Oh for god's sake, he wasn't a _dog_.

He walked over anyway.

"What?"

"Get my phone, on the table," Sherlock said, still observing a piece of the lead pipe under the microscope. John picked it up. He tried to give it to Sherlock, but both of his hands were busy with his damn microscope. For the rest of his life, John was never going to see a microscope and not think of him.

"Here," John said.

Sherloock's voice rumbled in his long neck, as it often did while he was busy with his hands. "No. I need you to send a text." John brought the phone to himself, eye-level, but: "Hold it in front of me. Please."

The doctor didn't moved. Did he mean … … no. "What?"

"Hold it in front of me."

No.

_What_?

John was standing behind Sherlock, who was sitting, hands and face burried in his work. The detective reached back. He grasped the phone, which John was still holding onto, and brought it in front of his face, which put both of John's arms on either of his shoulders.

The back of Sherlock's head was planted just below his chest.

"Lower," Sherlock said. John didn't move. "You've got to bend down." John didn't move. "Are you listening?" Unfortunately. "I'll explain myself then: We are going to procure this pipe. There are three security cameras in here. I have disabled two – days ago, no one's noticed yet. If you bend down exactly three and one half inches, you will be blocking the reamining's view of the pipe, as well as your arms around my neck and the phone. To anyone who saw the recording, it would appear as if you were merely standing closely behind me. Understand?"

No, yes, wait…

John bent down, put his chin in Sherlock's hair, slid his arms along Sherlock's shoulder-blades until they couldn't get any closer. It wasn't very comfortable or utilizable, though, so John moved his arms under Sherlock's, reaching around his chest instead, and leaned forwards.

The detective continued with his microscope, and began, very quickly: "First text, number: one-one-three-six-six-six-six. Message: Twenty-five degrees west, thirty-two degrees east. Three minutes. Second text," – John began typing in a rush, had to crane his neck to see past Sherlock's head – "Number: one-one-three-seven-six-two-two. Message: Your boyfriend just kissed me, we need to talk. Meet in the library tomorrow at noon. Kayla. Third text, number: one-one-three-four-four-one-three; message: That is hilarious. He would never. SH."

Sherlock looked up from his sample each time John pressed send, as if he needed to make sure they were sent, as if John didn't always send them.

"What the hell is going on, Sherlock?" He demanded.

The detective grabbed the phone and, consequently, his fingers. John didn't look at it, he didn't want to see anything in it; Sherlock was concentrating hard on something and there was nothing happening in his mind other than the case. That was obvious. John pulled his hands away.

"Guard the door," Sherlock said the moment they were no longer in contact.

Vibrating, John walked over to the double doors and looked out them. There was no one in the hallway, no one coming out of the elevators. "There's no one," John said, leaning against the wall. _Breathe_, he told himself, _breathe or you're going to murder him and that would be one case he'd never solve._

Suddenly Sherlock was looking over his shoulder.

John stiffened but forced his voice to come out steady, "Don't trust me?"

"Merely dispelling my paranoia," he replied, looking intently out the glass windows, "Have you got your gun on you?"

"Yes. Of course."

"I suspect someone will fancy a fight soon. Be ready."

"Alright. But, Sherlock, what the _hell_ is going on here?"

There was a long pause. It was as if John's questions was somehow paradoxical or morally compelling or in some other way profoundly conflicting. Sherlock was staring at the space between them. John clued in.

Breath hitched he rushed to add, "I mean about the case."

Sherlock looked entirely and honestly astonished and vocalized his expression precisely: "Surely you _know_."

John shook his head.

"There's no time to explain at present, we have to leave in a mad-dash." His eyes looked everywhere but at John, and John felt the anger that had been eating him all day fade into oblivion, destroyed with his next words: "I'll have to ask you to trust me for the moment."

The doctor nodded.

With an aberrant grin, Sherlock Holmes snatched the lead pipe from the counter, snatched John by his coat-sleeve, and sent the three of them off flying down the hallway. John heard Lestrade shout at them when they reached the next floor down, expressing the legalities of stealing evidence. It did nothing other than widen his psyche, open his mind and broaden his chest. Doing the wrong thing to do the right thing always did. The walls slashed around at them in long strips of colour, like dyed spider webs spinning in a thundering wind. Sherlock had released his sleeve and was ahead of him, lead pipe swinging back and forth as he blasted forwards.

There were people chasing them. Police and detectives or men and women or just people, really, for all John cared.

The cab was waiting on the street, its doors wide open. Expecting them. Planned. John was making to go around to the opposite side, but Sherlock grabbed his coat and threw him into the car. Then he jumped inside himself, breathless, and spoke at the driver.

"Go, _now_ please, if it's not too much trouble!"

The driver – a woman, blond – shifted the car into second gear and slammed the gas before releasing the clutch and the whole machine lurched forward like it was a vicious dog that snapped its leash and was bounding after the bastard who'd tied it up and starved it. John slammed into the seat.

The cab raced down the roads of London and it wasn't ten whole seconds before they heard gun fire. A large red van was behind them, in the lane on Sherlock's side, with a pistol pointed at their heads.

"What the hell!"

"Your gun, get your gun!"

John snatched it out of his trousers and, steady, loaded it – but then the hammer stuck and he couldn't cock it and what the fuck was happening his guns never locked on him he took care of them six more shots one busted through the left rearview mirror what was happening oh BUGGER IT.

John hauled himself over to Sherlock and snatched his pistol. He rolled down the window, grabbed the shoulder under him for balance, and aimed at the van.

"Don't. Move." His teeth were grinding.

He took a breath, two, three. Kept them even and intended. The van began to swerve, driver having spotted him, but they were still shooting, someone in the back seat with a small handgun. John's head was hanging out in the open.

The noise stopped, as it always did. He collapsed into himself. He gripped Sherlock's shoulder tight. The roaring motor of the cab, the scratching of grazing bullets, the death rattle that sounded every time he picked up a gun – it all turned into white noise. One unremitting, low, hum.

John cocked it and shot it. The bullet dragged through the van's front tire. The air flew out of it. John shot again, hitting the other tire, and the van swerved; the driver was distracted, wasn't watching them – good – okay – they were safe – he could drop the gun, they were getting away, he needed to drop the sodding gun – but he could shoot again and kill them, whoever they were, they must be bad, they were trying to kill Sherlock – drop the gun – what good was all the training if he never got to use it – drop the – one bullet clean to the head, they wouldn't even feel it – John Watson drop that fucking gun you are not a murderer you – tried to kill his – doesn't matter drop it drop it drop it dr

"John." Sherlock said.

op it – they tried to – no you're not – just three shots they'd be dead all dead and he wouldn't be able to undo it – no – so it wouldn't matter – NO – but he could he _could_ he could fucking KILL THEM –

"John," he said again.

He clenched at Sherlock's shoulder. The detective took the gun from him.

John's knees were weak, his vision narrow and his stomach sick – but he managed to distance himself to the other end of the cab.

"Crack-shot," Sherlock remarked.

* * *

><p>John's knees were still weak as they stepped out of the cab at 221b. He stood at rest to relax them.<p>

Sherlock walked past him, eyes focused on their building. He held the lead pipe, absolutely ecstatic. Turning to grin at John, Sherlock placed the pipe against 221b, in a section clearly missing a bit of piping, and it fit perfectly.

_Oh_, John thought, stomach rolling, _it's from our flat – oh lovely_.

Sherlock left the pipe where it came from and headed inside. Still shaken, John followed.

Once they were sitting in the living room (John was trying to lose himself in his seat, his nerves were shot), Sherlock began explaining.

"Our serial killer knows where you live and who I am."

"The pipe?" Sherlock nodded. "Can't just be a coincidence?"

"Paired with the cloth from your clinic and the similarity between the murders and the woman who died under your care?" God he was insensitive. "Not a coincidence, no. He would've realized last night. We were mentioned on the local news, or maybe he's found your blog. But he didn't know of me before that… if he had, he would've made to kill me before murdering his first victims – he recognizes me as a threat... He isn't from around here. You said the soldier was Canadian, correct?"

John nodded. And then, "But how did you know when they were going to show up? And how did you know they were going to shoot at you?"

"Mycroft warned me," he admitted, sullen, "He has his uses. The cab driver was one of his field agents." To prove his point, Sherlock handed John his phone.

The message read:

Today, just after 12,  
>2 gunmen in van.<br>Will send a car. Be  
>outside the Yard.<br>Mycroft Holmes.

Something else hit John next, something with far too much hope in it.

"Wait. Wait. Then going to the lab was just a ploy to get us where your brother could help us."

"Yes."

"Then why," John stiffened, "Why the microscope and," he stiffened more, "the texting?"

"Buying time. I had you text Kayla Welsford's best friend, who doesn't yet know that Kayla is dead. We are to meet her tomorrow."

"You already knew where the pipe was from."

"Yes."

"So you could've sent those texts yourself."

"I had to look busy, John."

The doctor relaxed his torso. Too much hope indeed.

"Alright, so what about the Lyme Disease? What does that matter?"

Sherlock's face broke into a charming grin. He stood up, walked across the room, and sat next to John. The cushions under them poofed and that grin was infectious, crawling up the doctor's spine.

"It doesn't, that was just to throw Lestrade off."

"Sherlock…"

He waved away John's disapproval. "What's important is this: Kayla Weslford arrived home _today_. The murderer knew she would be home _today_. The murderer also knew the house would be empty, save for the son and the daughter. So…" He looked at John, waiting for him to connect the final dots.

"So the murderer knows the family."

"Their financial state, their living arrangements, travel plans… the murderer _stalked_ the family."

"Not just a close friend?"

"Not likely. He's probably from Canada – he's _probably_ the brother of the sister who died on your table." Sherlock bit his lip. "But I can't be certain, not yet."

John rubbed his knees. "You… you really think he's out for revenge, then?"

"If I'm correct in my assumptions… yes. I think he's come here to kill you."

John felt guilt work up his spine. It hadn't been his fault, he knew that. Not much any doctor could do with a lead pipe through someone's gut, all that poison seeping into the blood… the blood seeping out anyway. She'd known she wasn't going to make it. But John couldn't help it then and he couldn't help it now; feeling guilty came with the job.


	3. The Date

(Edited by V!)

* * *

><p>The Date.<p>

* * *

><p>Evening came quick enough. With all this dreadful business, his military past coming back to haunt him, John was very glad to have A Date.<p>

And of course with all this dreadful business, Sherlock Holmes was very glad to have _more_ dreadful business.

"You're going to help your brother?" John asked, just before his mug found his lips. The flat was as dark as it ever was at night, but there was an empty feeling to it. Maybe the lack of the violin, bubbling experiments, a girl to make the home – his sister would punch him for that thought.

Sherlock sighed, "Well he has saved my life today."

"You're not serious."

"It concerns the Yakuza and a missing truck-load of cocaine. Of course I'm going – It sounds delightful."

He was wearing that purple shirt, pulling his jacket on. He really was going to help his brother. Now that was odd, and endearing. Not that John had just thought that, because he had A Date.

Sherlock paused in the doorway before leaving.

"I… I think you'll be alright, but don't be alone, and if you – "

"I'll have my phone on."

"Good." His voice was suddenly tight. "Enjoy yourself."

"You too."

He left.

* * *

><p>Having A Date, for John, was natural. Normal. Conceivable and Acceptable. A Date had separated him from his sister as much as possible during school, kept them from being The Watson Twins because she'd been unconventional and wild, and he'd gone on A Date. She'd drink herself to the belly of hell and back, and John would have A Date. She'd call from the other side of London, alone, lost, naked, and scared, and John would have A Date. She'd kiss women and make their mother crazy, and John would have A Date.<p>

Mary Mortson was tall, blond, and willowy. She had about her something strikingly ordinary, that he might've passed her over had she not flung a smile at him from across the room last weekend, when John had met her Sherlock and he had been on a case: the Red Army was looking to invade concerning supposed stolen military paraphernalia. Sherlock had managed to brilliantly disprove Britain's involvement. He tracked the 'paraphernalia' (John had never been told exactly what it was) to a coal mine in Anchova, having been commandeered by pirates and taken to the Sea of Okhotsk. He could still remember Sherlock's ecstatic grin when they'd met the pirates. His neck had been in a (thankfully slack) noose ready to end him over a bright blue sea, and that grin, he'd grinned at John, it had been so –

"… work?"

"Sorry, what?" John said from across the table.

Mary laughed at him. "What do you do for work?"

"I'm a doctor," he said quickly, "Shift work at a clinic, only three days a week." He rubbed his knees, feeling as if he was betraying his friend, but, it wasn't really his job, and then it sort of was – he sort of was Sherlock's –

"Doctor," Mary said, grinning, "I bet that gets you all sorts of dates."

"Actually no… most women seem to find it… inconvenient."

She sighed, "I find it boring, is that better?"

"You what?"

"Oh please." She waved a hand. "Siting in an office all day telling people 'It's just a cold, go home,' over and over…" She shook her head. "When I met you, you were covered in blood and dirt and you looked… well. You didn't look like you worked at a clinic. You're lying to me, John."

He sat back in his chair, fork dropped to his plate. The low orange lights from the paper lamps around them gave her a cynical look. The clinking of metal seemed to give her eyes more sparks than they really had. Right, of course she would know he had some other job. He had met her in the Winter Palace, one Captain Francis D. Clemente's blood soaking him to the bones.

"Ah… right."

"What were you doing in Russia? I work for the government, I was there for political reasons." Mary pointed at him, modestly though, not accusing just… teasing. "You, however, were there chasing pirates."

John took a breath. He was starting to like her. But they never stuck around long after this part; Sherlock Holmes was a very accurate and perfectly flawless female-repellent. If John could bottle it and sell it, he would, and he'd never have to worry about paying his bills again, because eau de Holmes would never fail in ensuring women found you repulsive. It was almost like a superpower.

"I have another job, of sorts." He scratched his head. "It involves…"

"Chasing pirates?"

"Catching criminals."

"Police?"

"Not exactly."

"Military."

"Yes, but no. It's – "

"Oh no, let me guess it!" She smiled, dazzling, at him (and he never thought the word 'dazzling' would fit anyone else).

John lifted his head to meet her eyes. The noise of other people drinking and talking, watching telly, it all faded into the background. Her eyes were almost red.

"Something vigilante. Not formal, not even for the government," she said and he nodded, "But you are a doctor, and you must be clever, working out where the stolen goods were. A freelance or private detective then?"

She wasn't leaving. He must be in a dream. "Sort of. I'm not the detective, I'm afraid. Merely his – "

"Doctor! You're his doctor!"

"Not really."

"Oh you must be."

"More like… " More like what? Assistant? dog? bodyguard? gunman? friend? "Doctor, okay. Let's go with that."

Mary's elbows found the table with a heavy clunk and she looked wild, her plain eyes alight with red heat. "So you're the personal doctor for a private detective who does secret work for the British government that involves traveling the world on international war-matters, sailing the high seas, fighting pirates and sneaking around the Winter Palace with scimitars and handguns – and you chose to tell me you're a clinician?" She pouted, "You must no want me to stick around."

John felt himself ready to fall blindly into hope. But he held back. This had happened before; women who think it all sounded so exciting until they're staring down the barrel of a cold, black gun in the underground of decadent circumstance.

"Tell me about him."

"Who?" He asked to fill up time, space, and distract his head.

"Your private detective." She sipped at her wine.

"Consulting detective."

"What?"

"That's what he's called – a consulting detective."

He flushed, the need to clarify overpowering, and quickly stumbled through an explanation of a few of their cases, avoiding Moriarty. Just murders, stolen goods, nothing crazy or Sherlock-up-to-his-knees-in-flesh-and-smiling-about-it. No naked bodies on the river side. Nothing personal, scary like that. And Mary listened the whole time, absolutely enthralled, and John had never had this much fun on a date before. It felt comfortable, being this honest.

"That's incredible."

"Yes."

"He's a genius."

"Yes, but don't tell him, that's – " my job " – not something he needs to hear."

"Egotistical?"

"Unbelievably."

She bit her lip. "You don't suppose…"

John smiled. "Whatever awful thing you have to say about him, I've already heard it."

She nodded. "You don't suppose he sets them all up? Kills the victims, sets someone else up, and shows off?"

He was about to answer, but his phone began ringing in his pocket. He knew it was Sherlock. He was on a case right now, so it might be important. He looked at Mary and was about to not answer it because she had asked him about his life and not about his income or status and she might really _like_ him.

"Is that him?"

"Yes but..."

She made to stand up. "Answer it, please, I've got to run to the loo anyway."

She left in a hurry. A bit frantic, John pulled out his phone.

There was a picture of a premature, dead baby on his screen. And then a message:

_ What do you make of this? SH._

For god's sake! He was trying to enjoy himself!

_ Mother did cocaine._

_ How do you know? SH._

_ I'm a doctor. _ He typed and sent it to be an arse. Sherlock was intruding on a perfectly perfect night, after all.

_ John there is an AK47 to my temple so if it's not too much trouble would you mind sharing you doctorly wisdom with me? SH._

He snorted. _There is not an AK47 pointed at you._

_ There could be. SH._

_ You wouldn't tell me if there was._

_ Answer the question. SH._

_ IUGR: intrauterine growth restriction. Uterine blood vessels constrict, blood flow in placenta slows, baby is born too small. Common result of maternal use of drugs during pregnancy._

_ Yes but how do you know it's cocaine specifically? SH._

_ I don't. Check its Meconium at the lab._

There was a long pause. John didn't want to think about what Sherlock was doing during that pause, because he probably wasn't going to waste time bringing the dead fetus to the lab. John just hoped he wasn't in their living room, and that he took a long bath in peroxide afterwards.

_ Why didn't I think of that? SH._

_ Doctor thing, not a detective thing. _That sort of reasoning called for medical thinking and not… investigating, which was definitely Sherlock's strong point. Not that he wasn't interested in and very very good at biology and the like, but it was second nature to John.

_ Obvious. Should have you with me. SH._

_ What's obvious? Checking the corpse's waste, or that I should be there? _ He almost sent it. Deleted it in a rush. Typed and sent, _If that's __all__ then…_, instead.

And then something altogether unexpected and unwanted and, just like last night, very much not okay happened.

_ John._

_ What now?_

_ Thank you._

He didn't send a reply. He clicked his phone off and shoved it in his pocket and tried tried tried tried tried not to fucking smile like he'd just had the most fantastic shag of his entire life.

Mary sat back down a few minutes later.

They talked about work, politics, and money. Not normal topics for a first date; easy to offend people with those things. But she wasn't a normal woman, John was starting to notice. She could handle Sherlock. He could tell, she'd handle him just fine. God, the very idea of it made him smile.

The hours creeped along and she held onto his arm as they waited for her cab together. 221b was just a few blocks away, and John felt like walking.

"So… call you?" John asked as she sat inside the cab.

"Yes please!"

The car drove off into the street, taking John's hope and heart with it.

Smiling, he turned his phone back on (because he'd said he would) and was about to stick it into his pocket for the walk home, when it buzzed.

16 missed messages, it informed him. At first he felt striking slick panic: his inbox rarely filled up when he had his phone off. What if Sherlock really had been at gun point? What if he'd texted him and texted him and John hadn't been there?

7:03 PM:  
>Have to wait for results. Bored.<p>

Oh. Never mind, then. Relaxed, John continued down the list.

7:04PM:  
>Is she stupid like all the others?<p>

7:11PM  
>No answer. Deduction: she isn't.<p>

7:36PM  
>You wore that ghastly red shirt. Red invokes passion. Hoping to 'get off' are you?<p>

8:55PM  
>Results still not in. There is fetal blood all over the kitchen floor.<p>

8:58PM  
>Reminds me of your shirt.<p>

9:05PM  
>Not good?<p>

9:11PM  
>A spider crawled onto my nose.<p>

9:11PM  
>Steatoda nobilis.<p>

9:12PM  
>It's the same colour as your eyes.<p>

9:15PM  
>Not as arcane, though.<p>

9:18PM  
>Some species of male spiders die after mating.<p>

9:21PM  
>Mathematically, it doesn't seem productive. F + M ~ 3000E. 1600M &amp; 1400F. That leaves 200M mateless – hypothetically. But biology is more than math, I suppose, and I've not studied spiders much.<p>

9:58PM  
>What do the leftover spiders do? Mate with each other? That can't be productive.<p>

10:11PM  
>Hey, John, if we were spiders...<p>

He was about to shut his phone and start walking. He knew it was going to get weird; but it got there before he'd moved.

10:15PM  
>Odd, I've crawled onto your bed.<p>

And then John _was_ moving, but not towards the flat. He chucked himself directly back inside the bar and ordered another pint. He drank it with fear, and when his phone buzzed, was drunk enough to think checking it was a good idea.

11:30PM  
>Still in your bed.<p>

He drank some more. He drank for five minutes.

11:35PM  
>My brother wasn't kidding but you could turn him into a liar.<p>

11:37PM  
>Perhaps that wasn't obvious enough for you: come home and fuck me.<p>

He choked, and then drowned himself in his pint.

11:37PM  
>Now, John.<p>

He finished it and asked for another even though it was his fifth since his date he couldn't remember her name right now Sherlock in his bed demanding to be fucked oh jesus christ

11:38PM  
>Starting without you then. Never done this before but, since y<p>

11:39PM  
>Texting with one hand too tiresome. 'Wanking' too boring.<p>

John felt his hips reflect what his eyes were reading and his mind was making up.

11:42PM  
>If you don't reply, Doctor, I am going to go back to my own room and repudiate all of this.<p>

11:43PM  
>And just so you're comfortable – I know you think I'm high on cocaine: I'm not. I promised you I wouldn't go back there. I haven't.<p>

11:43PM  
>So come here.<p>

_Don't_. John slammed his head into the table, _don't_.

11:50PM  
>I meant it directly: You can fuck Me.<p>

No no no no no no no

11:52PM  
>Your sheets feel amazing on my cock.<p>

No no _no_

11:55PM  
>Lips would feel better.<p>

NO NO NO

11:55PM  
>Yours, I mean.<p>

11:56PM  
>John, I<p>

John shut his phone. He could feel nothing but the hallow pounding in his chest, hear nothing but waves of blood in his ears. And he couldn't think any other thought than having Sherlock's cock inside his mouth and running his lips up and down it; then dragging himself over that long body and raising his hips and fuck he had to get home.

* * *

><p>The flat was dark and quiet. His feet creaked the wooden floor. It was a frightening contrast to John's body, which was screaming at him. He was harder than he'd been in years. Since he was a teenager. It kept catching at his trousers. They needed to go. His phone buzzed again.<p>

12:15AM  
>Get in here.<p>

He tripped up the stairs.

12:15AM  
>Never mind what I said before, I want you to make me come without touching my cock.<p>

John pushed the door to his bedroom open as he read that, and lifted his eyes, and was staring at Sherlock Holmes, wrapped in his sheets, in only his sheets, typing pompously at his phone.

12:16AM  
>I read about it. Sounds interesting.<p>

"Sherlock," John said, but it was rasped.

12:16AM  
>Yes?<p>

John walked over to the bed and tore that stupid phone out of the detective's hands. He wasn't one for words and Sherlock himself was always cryptic with them, so John tried to explain everything with his eyes as he fell to his knees beside his own bed and kissed the other man.

(His arms were really sore, like they were asleep but… splinted…)

Sherlock leaned into it and pushed at a few places, lightly on his shoulder and not so lightly against his mouth. The contrast sent cold sparks to his stomach, that festered and turned hot the more he pressed into Sherlock.

Two arms snaked out, yanking him forwards. The kissing stopped suddenly. John blinked, lost.

"Why are you on the floor." It wasn't a question. "I may be a virgin but I am not clueless as to how sex works and it requires more bodily – and don't get me wrong kissing you is defiantly – well you know you're here – but it requires us in bed together, so if you wouldn't mind."

John pulled himself onto his bed and kissed Sherlock again.

Sherlock's fingers found his spine. He skipped over the cervical section of his back, running down it quickly; he stopped at John's second thoracic disk, rubbing at it, kneading it.

It didn't feel good or bad, but Sherlock went from tracing his second thoracic to his fifth, drawing something between the two nerves. It started to feel nice. Third, fifth, sixth, eleventh, first, second, third again… And then Sherlock moved his hand down further, and licked across John's bottom lip, fingers dragging up and down his lumbar vertebrae. The lumbar were distinctly lower and his bottom lip was being rubbed between Sherlock's mouth again and again and if he kept sucking on it like this, John was going to bend him over a counter and fuck him with his fingers. Just for being a tease. But only if Sherlock consented, of course, because John was in control and he was moral and ethical and Sherlock moved his hands lower on his spine, down to his fifth lumbar exactly. Right above his arse.

He tried not to but he bucked into his hand. Rutted against it. John took Sherlock's bottom lip into his mouth and sucked it harder and Sherlock groaned, he'd done so first because John hadn't yet. That mattered. Sherlock rubbed his arse, up and down with two fingers pressed, slow. For some reason John couldn't understand, it was the hottest thing anyone had ever done to him. He spread his legs a bit, and Sherlock kept rubbing him, and oh fuck, oh fuck, it shouldn't feel that good, it was just his arse, it –

John moaned into Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock laughed, but it was low and husky and had never sounded…

"Thought you'd like that."

They were kissing again, but Sherlock's hand had moved. It was resting nicely on his back, just above his hips. The heat hadn't left with it; which was just fine. Actually, this whole thing, it was fantastic, kissing Sherlock, so simple, easy to do. Light fuzz seemed to fill his stomach as he moved away from his lips and kissed John's cheek, jaw, temple, ear, and trailed down his neck. He set his head back into Sherlock's hand, letting him suck and lick at his collarbone. Sherlock's lips were wet and dragged (probably involuntarily which was an amazing idea him doing something involuntarily) across his skin. It was better than the arse-rutting. It was almost romantic, Sherlock's grip was gentle, it was as if John mattered to him.

_That_ thought sent reality stabbing into his brain, and suddenly he felt cold.

John snapped his eyes open. He couldn't see anything, just brown, grey, and a thick haze. Dread filled him quickly, fear, like thousands of bees stinging at his stomach lining, cracking the skin.

He moved to push Sherlock away.

His hands met the cold counter of the pub instead.


	4. Chapter Four

(Edited by V!)

Chapter Four

* * *

><p>He woke up in his bed and was appalled for two reasons. One: He wasn't sure about how much of last night had been a dream. Was Mary even real? And Two: Dream-Sherlock had been demanding yet romantic, and had done that (make me come without touching my cock. It sounds interesting John, hurry up!) while in the midst of two cases and had been, thus, entirely out of character. John liked to think that out of the whole world, he knew Sherlock the best – save Mycroft, maybe – yet his Dream-Sherlock had done something that the real one would never even have let cross his mind.<p>

How could he have had that dream? Him, John Watson! About… _that_, with another man, with Sherlock!

Anyway John had decided during the walk home last night to ignore it, _all of it_, because it was not alright to be having erotic dreams about his sociopathic flatmate. It was indecent, what Sherlock had done, what he'd _dreamt_ of Sherlock doing. He wasn't going to think about it. Remember the way he'd been held.

The crackpot genius was downstairs, in the living room surely, playing away at his violin. It was something a bit dark, haunting. It reminded John of the colour black, a beating waterfall bearing itself over the edges of a hardened cliff side. He was sure Sherlock would remark snidely about aimless follies if he ever found out how often John related his music to Romantic ideals: wide open valleys full of birds in flight, starry skies, fog over a wet street. It wasn't intentional. He was just a bit… well, romantic, and he couldn't help it.

Suddenly there was a break in the violin. It was almost as if – and it couldn't be – but it was almost as if Sherlock had made a mistake, because the pause didn't last long. He went back a few bars and started playing again. The song continued as if it hadn't been faulted, and John thought _That's right, Sherlock doesn't make mistakes, must've been on purpose_. But then it happened again, a cutting stop in the melody. John's eyes searched the door leading out of his room, feeling panicked.

His clock read 3:42AM. Odd, it felt later.

John walked downstairs in his usualy stiff military stride, though the authoritative effect was lost. He was in his pyjamas.

"Sherlock?" He said into the dark living room.

The violin slipped again. "Ah, morning."

John had heard the voices of wounded soldiers in Afghanistan every day. He'd never forget the crack, the strain, the sound of their bodies collapsing as the wind was knocked out of their lungs.

Sherlock was standing straight with his violin pressed to his chin. He looked, the majority of him, normal, but there was a dip in his right side. A crick. And as John followed it he found a trail of blood from his torso to his leg to his knee to the floor, the carpet collecting it like it was hungry, consuming it like a wide vat, stealing it.

The sight was uncanny. Sherlock was smiling at him, but it was… shameful.

"Got in a row with a dashing Japanese woman. Couldn't speak a word of English – brilliant with a knife, though."

John swallowed. "Clearly." Then he walked into the room, grabbed Sherlock's arm, and sat him on the couch. "You idiot." He pulled the detective's shirt open and pushed it away. The slice was raw, cut from his ribs to the front of his hip bone. It was red around the fringes, infecting slowly, and it hadn't begun to clot, which meant he needed to be stitched, which begged the question: "What the hell are you doing home? Go to the hospital!"

Sherlock looked even more guilty.

Suddenly, John understood.

"Sherlock."

"It was only one line."

John clamped his mouth shut. He held all of his disappointment, anger, whatever else there was, in. He grabbed Sherlock's hands and pulled him off the couch and onto his feet. He hauled him into the kitchen, head down, direct, intent. He kept something he'd named his 'patch-up kit' under the sink, but he was thinking of a new name. One he'd rather not say.

He tore a long strip of sterilize gauze and pressed it into the wound, put Sherlock's hands over the cloth and pushed. Then began moving The Science Things off the table, laid a sheet over it, and took a really really slow breath.

"Well, lie down," he said.

Sherlock did, spreading his body over the table. It must have hurt, John knew it had to have hurt, but the taller man hardly twitched.

It had only been a year since he'd last stitched someone up (emergency at the clinic), but he'd done it so often he doubted he could ever forget how. It was completely idiotic, of course, to be sewing skin together without any other disinfectant save what was in their bathroom – but Sherlock wouldn't go to the hospital.

John washed his hands, slipped gloves on, set a lamp on the table so he could see, watched blood stain the sheet, and was thus not the least bit genteel as he poured peroxide across the deep cut and stabbed Sherlock with the needle. The detective made a low grunt down in his back. It shook the table and John's hands, which wasn't okay, shaking was no okay during this; the next stitch was kinder.

Sherlock's eyes were closed, knitted in pain. "I – " John pricked at his body, "I was talking to Molly, about the corpses. There were teeth – erng – missing," he rasped and coiled a bit. John was trying not to remember his dream and instead think about how disgusting sewing tissue together should be. "The first two victims had three teeth missing, the second had two. Stupid, I should've checked. _Stupid_!" He laughed at himself, though it lacked amusement. "I was too caught up in… Anyway. What do you think it means?"

John didn't care what it meant. He couldn't focus. "A countdown."

Sherlock hummed so John pulled the thread tight and his breath hitched. "Perhaps," he said, careful, slow, watching the ceiling. "Leading to your death, if it is." His eyes rolled over to regard the doctor and John clamped his mouth shut again, not giving Sherlock anything. The detective frowned. "Are you alright?"

"Fine."

He knotted the end, wiped peroxide over it, and left the kitchen. Sherlock called after him, his name tight on his lips with the stinging in his side. John threw himself into his bedroom, slammed the door, collapsed onto his bed and pulled the sheets over and curled up terrified out of his mind because he'd just sewn bloodied, shredded skin together on a rocking kitchen table in a dirty flat and was harder than he'd ever been in his entire life.

A few hours later, Sherlock was at his door.

"John wake up! There's been another murder!"

His voice was spry and (_Thought you'd like that_) god, John wasn't sure of he could do this.

* * *

><p>"<em>No<em>."

Two bodies were laid out in the alley. Even though it was daylight, darkness ate around them, sinking sharp teeth into the cold flesh. The boy (the younger brother, just the same as the other double murders) – he was missing an arm. There were shreds of ragged skin hanging loose along the empty socket. The skin from his severed arm was littering the street. Skinned, someone had ripped his arm off and _skinned_ it. The skin was on the street in a pile. The skin was on the street in a bloody, lumpy pile. John followed a trail of blood. He had a feeling – he knew what he was going to see – but his stomach dropped anyway. The torn off arm, the skin away from it, the torn off arm that someone had skinned because the the skin was in a pile at his feet, so the bone, the bones of the torn off arm had to be _somewhere_, and John knew.

"Sherlock…"

The radius and ulna of the boy's arm were still laced lightly with scraps of red skin. There were places where the tendons, muscles, and arteries had been stretched. The radius and ulna were both still wrapped around each other, making a boney forearm.

It was dug into the young woman's body. The sister. Implanted through her chest. Her brother's, the bones had to be her brother's, he was missing his arm, blood poured out of the empty socket, blood everywhere, a cold trail from him to her, the bones infused through her heart, killed her, and why? Who would do this? Who had John hurt so badly? What kind of monster was _coming after him?_

"Sherlock," John breathed, "_Sherlock_."

Lestrade began talking, "Her name is Emily Ellis, her brother's is Bein. Brother's death unknown, possible blood loss. Her's is… obvious. They were on a double date with their respective partners, and were found here an hour ago… at around three AM. Apparently they'd gone outside to chat… When they didn't come back to the bar, their dates had gone looking, and found them just like this."

Sherlock grabbed gloves from his trousers. He stood closer than he had to. John fought against leaning into him. He was working, he was working, John loved when he worked and the alley smelt of blood and broken bones so he stood still, still as the soldier. Still and calm and kept everything together.

Sherlock went straight for their mouths.

"One tooth pulled from each," he said.

Molly must have told Lestrade about the teeth, because he asked, "What do you think it means? A countdown?"

John felt his knees weaken. There was only really one person this murderer could kill besides himself. He wondered if the thought had crossed Sherlock's mind, because each murder had been in pairs, and Sherlock was his… John was his…

They were a pair.

He swelled up with the urge to run. Leave. Get away from Sherlock and let himself be caught and killed. Alone.

"John," Sherlock started, "Does the number three-hundred-and-twenty-one mean anything to you?"

He shook his head.

"Nothing? Not a date, a house number, a phone number…" He pulled the gloves off and tossed them into a dumpster. Lestrade left, going over to his team. "Test scores from Barts, anything?"

John was still staring at the bloody corpses. He felt sick, and then Sherlock grabbed his arm.

"John."

"I have to go."

He tore himself away from the detective, away from the dead bodies on the filthy street, away from even the remotest possibility of being the cause of Sherlock Holmes's death.

* * *

><p>There were a few things that dawned on him while he trotted around London in a stupor. Things about last night, concerning when it stopped being reality and started being that dream. One, Sherlock was working two cases, hence his relapse and the wound along his torso. Two, Mary's number was in his phone – thank god. He'd hate to have made her up. Three, he needed to call her. John wasn't gay, he needed to call Mary and never have a dream about another man again.<p>

He'd been walking around London's streets for hardly twenty minutes before he got a text.

John deleted it without reading it. As long as he was no where near Sherlock, then the bones of his forearm could not be lodged into his chest cavity. That was his only thought. Keep his radius and ulna to himself. The murderer could do his worst to John, but there was no way, _no way_… damn his sexuality whatever it was, there was no way he'd lead this freak to Sherlock.

More followed, however, and these he did read:

5:32AM  
>FINE. I need to continue my work on<br>Mycroft's case. Go see Molly and talk  
>to her about the teeth. Think about<br>'321.' SH.

5:34AM  
>And in case you hadn't realized, I could<br>ask him where you are, but I am  
>respecting your idiotic selflessness.<br>Return to Baker Street before nightfall,  
>though, or I <em>will<em> employ him. SH.

5:34AM  
>Please reply. SH.<p>

John fisted his phone. He was happy that he cared and that, really, was the entire problem. He sent Sherlock a blank message. Molly wouldn't be at work until eight, so John set out to get a coffee and wander the streets aimlessly until then.

* * *

><p>(Thank you for all your wonderful reviews... They keep me writing.<br>Poor Jawn... I feel so awful...  
>Next chapter will be short, but they are going to get longer. I hope that's good news.<br>Inso.)


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